Gray Matter
by GilliganKane
Summary: AU. Brooke is a high school student, Haley is the new teacher. Her hands weren’t warm like Peyton’s, they were cool and those pestering chills came back. I knew she felt them too.
1. Chapter 1

She's new, and different, and I think that's why we all like her instead of egging her car and burning holes in her desk. When she walks into the room, the whole damn class finally shut their traps for once in their lives. Instead of the frumpy dresses and outdated shirts that teachers like Stevenson in the English department wears, she has on jeans that look 10 years old and the oldest and most sun-bleached AC/DC tee shirt I've ever seen. And she's wearing converse. Black friggin converse sneakers – high tops. We have never seen anything like her.

She sits on the edge of her desk, swinging her legs back and forth, her jeans making a soft swishing noise. And no one makes a sound. They're too busy trying not to let their jaws hit the floor. In the back of the room, I actually look up. But not because I'm told to, no way in hell. It's completely out of curiosity. Our math class has only ever been this quiet when JJ was arrested for possession, and then I think that class is over and I just forgot to leave, or someone died. Or - and this is a very unlikely situation – someone has actually managed to get us to shut up. Well, not really us, just them. I never say much – never have. I'm silent and try to keep to myself. But no one messes with me, cause they'll get messed up good. Everyone knows it. But there was no way that any teacher is going to get the rest of them to pay attention.

We're the reject class, the kind that sentimental people want to write success stories about. And they would have some big name actress cast as the teacher and she would completely change these kids lives, because deep down she knew that they were oh-so-much-more than they seemed to be. Bull. The kids in this class are the drug dealers and the thieves and the abused and the ignored. And do we care at all? No. We take care of each other and ourselves. We're all we need, and no teacher, sentimental or not, is going to change us. The administration finally figured that out when Peyton pulled a knife on a security guard after they tried to tell Lucas that he was expelled. Where Peyton got a knife is beyond me, but Lucas is still sitting in the third row, next to the window just so that his cigarette smoke doesn't bother anyone else.

I'm not any of that stuff, you should know that right now. No way, I'm clean as a whistle, never done drugs in my life. And the only thing I've ever stolen was a tee shirt from the circus, but they were giving them out for free anyway. I'm a good kid. Always have been, always will be.

When I look up and see her, I don't think she's anything special. She's just another rookie trying to do something for the world. Well, she isn't going to get her Nobel Peace Prize or her Humanitarian Award here. No way in hell. We aren't someone's science project. But the class doesn't know what to do with her.

"I'm your new teacher." She says it as if we don't know, and smiles a thousand-watt smile and it reminds me of the billboard sign on Jefferson Avenue that has the toothpaste add on it. Maybe she is the one in the picture, but probably not. The girl on the board is a brunette. The teacher in front of us is a blonde.

"So, maybe we could go around and say our names." This lady must think we're in first grade or something, because I haven't done "circle games" since kindergarten. But she has this hopefulness to her voice, and while it gets on my nerves, I'm kind of intrigued by it. "What do say?"

Peyton, who is up near the front, does this sniggering thing that she does when she gets annoyed and then turns in her seat to look at me. Peyton may be my sister – my twin sister to boot – but we are nothing alike. She's blond; I'm not. She's short; I'm tall. She talks – enough for the both of us; and I don't. I really don't know how we ended up being blood related, but both of us try to deny it all the time.

"What do _you_ say?" She asks me, looking at me like I'm going to give her a goddamn answer. I want to tell her I'm not a friggin answer book, but that would require opening my mouth and I just don't feel up to a challenge at the moment. So I do the shrug. Peyton knows that shrug. It means that she's pissing me off and she should leave me the hell alone. But Peyton, while she knows the signs, doesn't always like to listen to them.

"What do you say? Should we?" _I have no idea_ I wanted to shout at her. But instead, I glare a little, my hazel eyes squinting in her direction. She grins, then turns and nods to Cross next to her. Cross is the first kid in the first row of the room. Lucky him.

"The name's Cross." He says confidently, then waits for her reaction. She's looking at her grade book – the sure sign that she's a dorky teacher – and she has the craziest look on her face. She's probably thinking, there's no Cross on this thing. Well, if she thinks that this is the wackiest name she'll get, she's sadly mistaken. But I feel no sympathy for her. She should know what she's getting into. But then she does something that I never imagine any teacher ever doing.

"Okay then. This is not going to help me, huh?" She crumples the class list, and without even looking, she tosses it over her shoulder and it hits the edge of the trashcan rim before it drops in, making a hollow knocking noise. She reaches into her book bag at the bottom of the desk and pulls out a notebook, then a pen out of her back pocket.

"So," she says, as she draws little boxes on her piece of paper. I can see her counting the number of desks in the classroom in her head; I can see the little numbers floating around. "How bout we start over." Again with the smile.

I zone her out, and focus on the drawing I'm working on. Peyton posed for it. Well, I kind of just copied her eyes – the upside of having her around. And, what seems like a minute later, everyone's looking at me again. Do I look like I even know what's going on? Do I look like I even care? But even when I look back down for a second and then back up, everyone is still doing nothing better with their time than stare at me. Finally, I catch Peyton's eye, and she breaks out of her daydream trance. She falls into a lot, but she always pulls through in a cinch.

"That's Brooke." Says one blond to the other. Peyton offers no other explanation; no reason for why I just didn't say it myself. And for now – in her best interest – the new teacher keeps her mouth shut about the whole thing.

"Well, I'm Ms. James and…" She's cut off by the bell. Kids grab their unopened bags and head out the door. As usual, I'm the last one out of the room, and I can't help but notice that Ms. James is staring at me, like she's trying to figure me out.


	2. Chapter 2

October 9th 

Peyton owes me $40 bucks for the shirt she bought. I know she stole my money, but I'll let it slide for the time being. It's cause I'm such a nice girl and all. No, I'll just wear the shirt more than she will, and then she won't want it anyway. I know just how to push her buttons. Unfortunately, she knows how to push mine too. Like that crap she pulled today in class. She knows the shrug. For Christsakes, she invented the shrug! But whatever…

Speaking of class, the new teacher – Ms. James or whatever. I give her a week. A week and a half maybe. She looks like she's the kind of person that pretends to be able to handle shit and all, but she's going to crack – just like the rest of them. It's a proven fact. And James is just another statistic that…

I slam my notebook shut when I realize that the said teacher is sitting across from me, at _my_ lunch table. She's got one of those crappy yellow trays in front of her, and she's poking the main meal – roast beef – with one of the plastic forks that they give you. We haven't had metal forks for a couple years now, since one of the seniors stabbed a junior with one. I was a freshman then, but the lack of forks doesn't bother me. I never buy school lunch – its hazardous waste. My brown bag lunch in front of me contains the staple of every person's life: a peanut butter sandwich, and apple, a vanilla yogurt with optionally added granola and M&M's. Everyone knows that a lunch isn't a lunch without M&M's. Everyone except for Ms. James I guess. There are no M&Ms on her plate, just roast beef, a lump of white that I'm assuming is mash potatoes, and an indescribable mass of orange that looks so gross I don't even want to know what it is.

"So, Brooke. Where's that come from?" She stops poking her food and looks up at me. It's my first good look at her, and…well. She put her hair back in a ponytail and her eyes – which are bluer than any blue I've ever seen – stand out. She's too goddamn expectant for her own good, thinking I'm going to answer her. Cause there's no way in hell I'm going to.

But she surprises me…again. She doesn't stop to think it over that I'm ignoring her and she just continues talking. "Well, my name – my first name – is Haley."

"In high school, I say by myself at lunch too." I don't tell her it's a choice and let her talk, then think better of it and tune her out again, taking a bite of my sandwich. I'm counting down in my head the seconds until Peyton shows up.

5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and…0. A hand swoops down over my head and grabs my apple and yogurt/granola, replacing it with a bag of Cheetos and a small baggie of Choy Mien. Peyton never liked Cheetos or Choy Mien, and well, I'd take processed cheese over apples any day. Then without a word, Peyton floats away to her friends – Jenny, Lila, and Anna. Ms. James pauses for a second, but I can't tell if she's curious as to what just happened, or catching her breath. I don't have much time to think it over, because she's talking again.

"So, after high school, I decided to be a teacher." She's done, I think. But just as she's about to take a sip of the water I didn't know she had, I hear someone yelling. I turn around and see Lucas, and he's managed to get himself into trouble again. That boy never knows when to back down. I shake my head and turn back to my Cheetos when I see something out of the corner of my eye. _Oh shit_. I could be seeing things, it's completely possible. But then Peyton screams and I know I'm not seeing things, not at all.

"Brooke!" I don't even need to be looking at her to know that she needs me. She has a very distinct scream. _Shit, shit, shit._ The thoughts in my head are flying everywhere, going in every direction, just like the security guards bobbing and weaving through the crowded Lunch Square trying to get to Lucas and some junior kid I don't know. What I do know, is that the junior kid is holding a blade in his shaking right hand. His left hand is clutched closely to his body and I'm willing to bet I know where Peyton got that knife from when they tried to kick Lucas out. Lucas's holding the knife and he looks like he's going to pee himself.

The security guards are still trying to work their way through the crowd who have gathered at the side of the fight. Then I realize that Peyton just wants me to calm Lucas down. Lucas, Peyton and me grew up in the same neighborhood and have been friends since…forever. Lucas, he's just an idiot. But Peyton is still head over heels in love with him, and he'd move the moon for her. _Where the hell do I fit in there?_ I think about it a lot, since Katie left and all, but I finally figured out that I don't really care.

I turn back to Ms. James who is watching the fight with a ton of interest. You'd think she's never seen something like this before. Well, maybe she hasn't, how would I know.

"They do this often?" She asks me. Here we go again with expecting an answer. But she does it again and doesn't wait for an answer. "I thought so."

Peyton drops down next to me, a huge smile on her face. "That junior, Ryan or something, grabbed my ass. Lucas kicked his ass." I gave her the skeptic look, another thing she invented for our no-talking game. She smiled even wider. "Okay, so I kicked his ass and Lucas threw in the last kick while the kid was already on the ground. Either way, ass kicking was accomplished." Then my ever-bright sister caught sight of my lunch guest. Peyton leaned in closer to me. But she's never been too good at whispering, and today was no exception. "Why is she sitting with you?" I do "The Look."

"Why are you sitting with her?" Peyton redirects the question, then sighs. "Whatever." I look up and realize that Ms. James is gone. _Shit, what did I do to make her leave?_ Then I catch myself. _Why do I care if she sits with me or not?_ Peyton looks at me with a smile on her face and grins softly, like she knows some secret that I don't. I mock frown back at her and she reaches over and – god help her – ruffles my ponytail around so that it comes undone. My pin straight hair falls into my eyes and I look down at the table in embarrassment. Peyton laughs as she moves it off my face.

"You should keep it down." Then she leans closer and whispers in my ear. "I think she'll like it better like this." I look up as Peyton rises from the table and places a tiny kiss on the side of my head.

"Be good little sister." She whispers and then sprints across the quad to her friends. She's always doing stupid things like that.

So maybe Ms. James, or Kaitlin, or Haley, or whatever her name is has a chance of making it here. She didn't puke at the sight of blood like Mr. Rutted the Gutted did. And she didn't spaz out and scream at me cause I won't answer her. Mrs. Isles did. She said my "ridiculous vow of silence" was "irresponsible" and "unrespectable." I'm pretty sure she called me a lunatic. Lunatic? Me? No way. She was the one who was yelling at the kid who doesn't talk. Oh well.

Just for the record: I've been silent for 48 weeks now. One more month and I'll have done a year of silence. It's really a cool thing to do, you know. Sure, people give you a hard time at first, but then they get used to it, and soon you can figure things out by just watching.

Like the way I can feel Ms. James watching me from her classroom window right now.

I look up and glare at her, but she never wavers and instead smiles and waves back at me. Her grin is goofy enough to make me smile, but I fight the feeling and think about what Peyton said: "I think she'll like it better like this." _What the hell does that mean Peyton?_ I sneak a glance up again and she is still smiling at me. Then she does the weirdest thing ever. She gives me thumbs up, then laughs so hard I think that I hear it from 40 yards away. She can possibly be the wackiest teacher we've ever had. I pick my pen back up.

Maybe Haley James will make it after all.


	3. Chapter 3

October 17th 

It's fucking raining.

Peyton has the car. And she's already home.

I'm sitting at the bus stop, under the tiny slab of plastic they put up for the hardcore bus riders like myself, who stand outside in torrential downpours because their idiot sister decided to go to New York City earlier this morning to see some goddamn Broadway musical that she's not going to remember 10 years from now. _What the hell am I saying? I can't drive anyway._

I step off the curb and a speeding Durango sprays me with enough water to wash a small army tanker. _This is absolutely ridiculous_._ I'm going to _kill_ Peyton when I get home._ I decide that it makes no sense to stand under the "rain protector." There's a bigger chance that it'll break apart and kill me, than protect me from rain. Besides, I'm soaked anyway. What's the big deal? _You'll catch pneumonia and die, that's the big deal._ But I spread my arms open and tilt my head back anyway, catching the raindrops in my mouth.

_Ms. James tried to make me laugh today,_ I remind myself. The joke was stupid, like something you find in a Readers Digest, or off one of those stupid little calendars. "_A man shaves 10 times a day and still has a full beard. Who is he?"_ She was already laughing to herself and I thought for a second that I was going to break. Instead, I put on my frown face and gave her the shrug. _"A barber!"_ She thought it was the funniest joke in the whole world, and she laughed so hard, she almost fell off her desk. She never sits behind her desk, she always sit on it. I like that.

"_Oh. I see." _She looked at me in this serious kind of way, like I had just told her that she was no longer a candidate for a kidney transplant. _Well, you're certainly going to be a tough egg to crack. But I'll figure out a way to fry you."_ Then she laughed even more. It was strange, the cornier her jokes got, the more I wanted to laugh. But I didn't. _"Oh lighten up sunshine."_ She ran her hand across my shoulder, behind my neck and to the other rotator cuff, like she was just brushing by me. It gave me the chills.

The same thing happened last week, after the fight at lunch. I remembered at the end of the day that I left my favorite pen in the penholder in Ms. James's class, and I cannot survive without that pen. I would go to the depth of the ocean for that pen. But, I only had to go to her classroom. My hair was still down, and I couldn't see because it was getting in my eyes. And the next thing I knew, I ran smack into the doorjamb and tripped on it and rolled right into her room. And make no mistake; there was absolutely _nothing_ graceful about it.

"_Brooke, are you alright?"_ I dusted myself off, more pissed at myself than anything else. I tried to pull away from her, but she had a pretty good hold on my arm. _"Brooke, did you hit anything? Your head?"_ She reached up and pushed my bangs back, just like Peyton did, but it was different this time. Her hands weren't warm like Peyton's, they were cool and those pestering chills came back. I knew she felt them too, or at least she saw them on my arm that she was still holding. She loosened her grip after a minute and slowly pulled her hand from my forehead. Her eyes were…darker. Not just darker though. And I'm pretty sure _I_ was blushing. _"Uh, did you need something?"_ I pointed back to my seat and she noticed the pen. And then she went and got it for me. _"Here."_ And my hand stayed next to hers for a just a second longer than it needed to.

One raindrop disrupts my memory land trip. The drop of water rolls down my shirt, and falls into the small crevice between my sports bra and my shirt. _Way to where the _white_ Go Army shirt Davis._ I mentally congratulate myself on also making the decision of wearing a tank top underneath it. For a second though, I wonder where the hell the raindrop came from. Then another lands on my nose and I remember that it's raining cats and dogs. I'm sure that I just saw Principal Rodes black lab hit the trashcan over behind the cafeteria. This rain is really getting on my nerves, and it's seeping into my backpack, I guarantee it. That means that my sketchbook _and_ my notebook are getting wet and the edge of the pages are going to furl up and then they'll never close the right way again. _Goddamnit_. I get the sudden urge to look at my sketches from today, and I sprint back under the plastic "umbrella" and try to work my hands out of their numbness to open the clasp on my book bag. _Come on, come on._ This is so not worth the trouble, but I want to make sure I got the lighting right on one of them. Finally, I get the stupid bag open and I fumble through the pictures of everything: Lucas and Peyton on our front stoop, a ladybug on the windowsill. There are a ton of things, all arranged by date. I move through them, looking for the one picture I finally finished today. But it's not there. _Oh Christ. Where the hell it is? Where is it!_ I can't have lost this one. I sign all my drawings, and if someone – the wrong someone – picks it up, they're going to know who drew it. _Oh shit._

I want to throw these drawings away, throw them so far away that I'll never see them again. I want them to just disappear forever. They're all shit, every single one of them. And I crumple a few in my hand and I'm about the fling them into a puddle when I catch sight of one of them. It's Katie. One of the first ones I drew of her too. She was sitting on the swing at the park down the street; we were maybe 15. At least I think. It was right after she found out that her dog had died. She was crying, and she got so pissed at me for drawing her when she was crying. She punched me once in the mouth too. I sift through the pictures in my clenched fist. All of Katie. I can't get rid of them. And then, I can't tell if the wetness on my face is from rain or tears.

"Hey! Brooke!" _Great, this is just fucking great_. "Get in, I'll give you a ride." I don't respond to her and instead I point to the sign with the bus picture on it. "Yeah, I see that." _Don't ask me again, please. Please._

"Brooke, get in." She's leaning over to talk to me through the passenger window, and her hand which is outside of the cars protective shield, is starting to drip with water. _When the hell did it get this cold?_ "Brooke, don't make me get out of this car." _Oh, she's threatening me now, huh? Well in that case…no._ Just to prove that she's not going to get me in the car, I sit down on the sad excuse for a bench under my plastic skydome and fold my arms over my chest, just like a little kid whose pissed to be in time out would. I can see her smile slightly. "Fine. Be like that." She puts her shit car into drive and starts to pull out back into traffic. _Stop being an ass Brooke._ My internal voice gets the better of me, and in a second, I'm off the bench and grabbing my stuff. She hasn't gone far, and it sort of seems like she was waiting for me. _Jerk_. I grab the handle and then wait while she slowly unlocks the door. It's suddenly really cold out, or I just didn't notice it before – which is probably the case.

"I knew you were going to get in." She says in a matter-of-fact way. _Smartass._ "It's cold out." She also has this incredibly annoying knack for stating the obvious. Then she reaches towards the stereo and turns the heat on, and in a moment, it's cranking out temps that will even get the dead's blood re-flowing. We sit in silence for a minute and when we stop at a red light, she turns to look at me. That's better than when she looks at me from the corner of her eye. When she does that, I can't look at her fully, because she'll know that I'm staring. But when she's looking at me directly, I can look back without creeping her out. As if I'm not already doing that.

"Any particular reason for standing out in the middle of the sidewalk in the rain?" She's wearing khaki cargo pants today, and Harbor High tee shirt. She probably went to school there, but I don't want to ask. "I didn't think so." She flashes me another smile and then focuses on the road. I like when she does that, focusing and all. She gets really into things, and it seems like she's the kind of person who will do something for a long time without realizing it. Like, she'd spend an hour on a math problem, and then wonder where the time went, that kind of thing. And her eyes squint just a little, and when she gets excited about something, she leans forwards just an inch or two. You see it in class when she's explaining a problem. And the fact that she's explaining a problem at all is incredible. No one has ever gotten any of the class to even crack a book, unless it was one of the hollow ones that JJ used to pass out at the beginning of the year. But yesterday, even Peyton raised her hand to answer a question. Maybe the class isn't up to the "based on a true story" movie level yet, but we're headed there. _Get a grip on yourself you doofus. Stop being a teenager._ I hardly notice that we're at another red life. But then her hand is on my arm and it suddenly feels like my whole body is on fire. _Calm down Davis!_

"Jesus, you're freezing." Again with stating the obvious. Its also obvious that choosing the Go Army shirt that's white _and _short sleeved wasn't the best choice I've made in my life. A second hand is on my arm, like she's trying to transfer some of her body heat to me. Her phone rings and it breaks whatever chance of a moment that there was. Its one of those traditional cell phone ringers and she needs both her hands to search for it in her pocketbook between us. I see it first and reach into her bag. She freaks a little, and I think I see her flinch, but I hand it to her anyway. She gives me a semi-smile, but I see her falter a little when she reads the name off the caller ID. _Don't get jealous_ I try and warn myself. _It could be her mom. Yeah, it's her mom. And she wants to make sure that her daughter is still coming for the family dinner tomorrow night, and she wants her to bring the dessert, because that's what daughters do. Yeah._ I try and reassure myself, and at the same time, I'm trying to figure out why I have to reassure myself in the first place. _Just admit it, you've got a crush on Haley James. You like the way that she smiles at you, and the way her hand feels against yours. You're crushing Brooke; you're crushing hard. On a teacher._

"Hey." Her voice is colder than when she talks to you, or anyone else you've ever seen her talk to. She's not making eye contact with you, and for once in…forever, you're the one trying to get her attention. _It's her mom; it's her mom._ I try to repeat the mantra in my head, and I stop listening to her conversation.

_It's her mom._

_She wants her to bring dessert._

_It's her mom._

But then I see it. Sitting in the ashtray part beneath the radio. The sound system light catches it as the car moves and it glimmers and nearly blinds me. It's huge too, and I know that someone had to pay a fortune for it.

"Yeah, I'll be home soon. I'm dropping…" She turns to look at me, but I can't pull my eyes away from the diamond ring in her ash-free ashtray. "A student of mine off first. She needed a ride home that's why. Well, it's raining." I feel trapped here, and I can't really figure out why.

And I'm no genius but it doesn't one of those to figure out she's engaged. _Can you say "idiot?" _I need to get out of this car. I've already made a complete fool of myself, why hang around any longer?

_You have no right to be jealous_ I remind myself. _Its not like you were involved with her, or had any chance of being involved. You have no right._ But it's not working for me. I'm only a block and a half from my house, and the rain let up a little. It seems like a good time to bolt, while she's still on the phone and all.

"Yeah, in a few. You too." But she's already done, and my moment of courage is suddenly hiding. And there she goes flashing that smile at me. "Sorry about that." But I still can't look at her. "Brooke?" But I still can't look at her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her finally catch sight of what I'm looking at. "Oh." But this time, there's no joke following this "oh," its just silence. _Lighten up sunshine,_ I tell myself.

"Brooke…" And I'm out of the car, my backpack still on the floor of her passenger seat, but I don't care. I'm running, fast and hard, and then I'm sailing over the fence that the Dobson's put up to keep their dog from getting into the street. I pull open my back door, and shut the sliding glass door behind me. _Was there a reason to be running?_ That was possibly the stupidest thing I've ever done.

"Why the hell are you running?" Peyton is sitting at the kitchen table. Well, more like she's sitting on Lucas's lap, who is sitting at the kitchen table. But I don't tell her that I'm running from the teacher that I have a crush on, because the said teacher is engaged to someone else, probably a CEO of some office or a partner in a law firm. Instead, I shrug and grab an apple off the counter and the jar of peanut butter from the cupboard. Peyton slides a knife across the counter, from the silverware drawer and I give her a smile before I head up to my room. I hit the light switch and the stereo turns on, just something I rigged up with my dad years ago.

_You idiot. _

_It wasn't her mom._

_She probably can't even bake cookies._


	4. Chapter 4

The stereo turns on and the light blinds my eyes, but I know that Peyton doesn't really care. She turns down the Warped Tour 2004 mix that's blasting just because I felt like blowing out my eardrums. I groan and roll over, pulling the pillow over my head, trying to block it all out.

"Let's go." Peyton tries to coax me out of bed, but I just throw what I think is a dirty sock, at her head. "Ewww, Brooke. That's gross." She grabs my protective pillow and rips back my shades. I flinch and look at the clock: 7:30 am. It's like she reads my mind. "Yeah, I know, but you promised we'd go to the mall today," I look at her. _When the hell did I say that?_ "And you've been such loser lately. You need shop-therapy." I'm not sure what shop-therapy is, but it doesn't sound good – at all.

Still, an hour later, I'm sitting in the passenger seat of Peyton's car, staring at the other cars, wondering what the other drivers are thinking. I finger my sketchbook in my lap. I got it back – and the rest of my stuff – 2 days ago, after class ended. I made sure that Peyton stayed with me, so I wouldn't have to hang around too long. Besides, Peyton was my voice in situations like these. Because it seemed like I got myself in situations like this often. Once, after a breakup, I wanted my sweatshirt that I had left after the breakup argument. Peyton marched in and almost knocked some teeth out, but when she got back in the car, she had my sweatshirt in her hands. She's a sister like that. And when I hung back after class on Friday, she hung back too, and waited while Ms. James handed me my bag, my sketches, my books and a folded up piece of paper that I still haven't looked at yet. I know it wasn't in bag on Thursday, so James must have written it.

That particular piece of paper was still in my pocket. I just threw on a pair of pants this morning, and they happened to be the same one I was wearing when I shoved the folded note out of Peyton's sight. I love my sister to death, but she would have been asking questions I couldn't answer. _Stop thinking about her_ I yell at myself. _If you think about her, you're just going to do something stupid. You're already an idiot, you idiot. So just…stop._

"Goddamnit!" Peyton yells at some early-bird shopper who just stole her parking spot. I can't help it when a smile stretches across from face, and she glares at me for a second, before she finally smiles too. "It's nice to see you doing that. Smiling you know. You don't do that so much anymore." My smile is gone instantly, but I can't really explain why. It seems like I stop because people notice I started in the first place. _If you never stop, then people will never notice._ If only my inner conscience could work my facial muscles, I'd have a pretty good thing going.

"That wasn't an invitation to stop." She's scanning the lot for another place to park, and I point one out to her a row over. "You're a good thing to have around sometimes." She shuts off the engine and gets out. When I don't follow suit, she leans back into the car and gives me a "come-on-already" look.

"Brooke." I don't move.

"Brooke." My dad always told me that I was stubborn. I guess he was right.

"Brooke Penelope Davis. Get your skinny ass out of this car. Now." Last time I was ordered in/out of a car, I found out that Ms. James was engaged. Then I smile when I realize that Peyton skipped over the "first and middle name" tactic and went right for the full name. That's Peyton for you. So I get out of the car and give her a "are-you-happy-look" look.

"Very happy, thanks for asking." She keeps talking, but I'm not paying attention anymore. My brain is churning away, I can feel it moving, thinking things I shouldn't be thinking. Which basically means that I'm thinking about Ms. James.

_You've known her for what, 2 days? No, okay, you've known her for 4 weeks. What's the difference, huh? The difference is that in 2 days, all you knew about her was that her name Haley. And in four weeks, you know that she likes vanilla ice cream, Reese's Peanut Butter cups, goldfish and AC/DC. She played the guitar in college, and likes Charade, because she likes Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant together. She hates the movie Breakfast Club, because she's jealous of Molly Ringwald's talent, but thinks that Anthony Michael Hall is one of the funniest actors of all time. And I know she's engaged. _

_He could be some big shot, or maybe he's a loser. What the hell am I saying? Why do I care? I've known her for 4 weeks. 4 weeks! This is ridiculous. _I shake my head at myself and realize that I'm in the mall now, in some store where they play ridiculously loud, god-awful rock music that you can't even hear yourself think over. I can't find Peyton, so I decide to take a seat on the edge of a display table. I pull out my notepad and doodle on the first clean page. _But she's just…ugh. I know this love at first sight thing is stupid. Its fairy tale crap. It's all fake, all just a joke. And I shouldn't be wasting my time. But it's the little things, like the way she squints when she thinks she's frowning, and the way she'll say something so stupid, but then smile and laugh so loud you can't do anything but laugh with her. And I know she feels it too. But she's spoken for…_

"Hey there little sister." I jump when Peyton leans her head on my shoulder from behind me. I didn't even hear her footsteps. Usually, I'm more on top of these things. "Wow. You really _are_ out of it, huh?" There's a pause as she pretends like I'm answering.

"So what's your deal there Silent Bob?" She grabs my hand and drags me out of the store. Oh wow. I can hear my own thoughts. It's like someone just turned on a switch in my head. BAM.

"Are you even listening to me?" I nod, then shrug. Peyton gives me a look that says "well-then-stop-being-an-idiot-and-let's-do-something-fun." I love when Peyton speaks with her facial expressions. It's like watching an extremely entertaining movie. Something super funny.

"Alright. We can go I guess. I can't find anything I want. See anything?" I shake my head, but start to head over to the music store. They had a used copy of a Third Eye Blind CD that I wanted. I check to make sure she's following me. She is.

"Right behind you O Silent One." I glare. She laughs. I'm not paying attention to where I'm going, and trying to walk at the same time. Peyton is still laughing, and I make a grab for her, snagging her by the belt loops and glide backward, into the store entrance. Then I hit something that seems to be the equivalent of a Mack truck.

"Hey. Watch it." I hear Peyton say. I'm still facing backwards, but I see her facial expressions change from "what-the-hell-buddy" to "oh-crap." I hate the "oh-crap" look. It never equals good things. I whip around, and I'm pretty sure my face just took on the "oh-crap" look too. Standing in front of me is the biggest human being I have ever seen before in my life. Easily 6'9, this guy must be at least 210. And on his arm is…

"Hey Brooke." _Shit._ Ms. James smiles nervously, almost so nervously that her bodyguard almost turns to give her a strange look. I think Peyton has it covered though. _This is all your fault Ms. Alexandra. All. Your. Fault._ I'm sending Peyton messages telekinetically, but she doesn't seem to be getting them. Damn her.

I nod though. No sense in being rude. Not even when they person you could possibly be in love with is standing in front of you with her fiancée. No way. Ms. James stumbles over her thoughts a little, I can see it in her eyes. She's not quite sure what to do. So while there is a silent moment, I really look at her. And she's…different.

The engagement ring is around her left finger, and instead of high tops, she's wearing high heels. It must be laundry day, because she clearly doesn't wear this dress often. I can almost see the hanger marks on it. And her makeup looks a little too perfect. I can see her looking me over and I realize two things: one, with dirty jeans and a three-quarter sleeve baseball shirt on, I look ridiculous. And secondly, I'm still holding her note in my hand. Her eyes widen a little as she sees it, and I remember I still haven't read it.

"So, this is the girl you brought home from school the other day?" Ms. James smiles nervously, and out of the corner of my eye, I can see Peyton's facial expression go from "oh-crap" to "I'm-extremely-confused." I nod too, just to be on the safe side. Then the giant sticks out his hand. "I'm Nathan, by the way." More like Brick, I think, as I slowly shake his outstretched ligament.

"Haley tells me you don't talk. That's fascinating." Then, as an afterthought, "I'm a psychologist." Holy fucking hell. Shoot me now. "When did you stop talking?"

"Hi, I'm her sister. Peyton." My knight in shining hand-me-downs, Peyton steps in and then I'm looking at Ms. James. Haley. Haley James. And she's mouthing something to me, but I've never been a good lip reader. So I shake my head, and she stops. A moment later, Peyton has managed to pull Nathan away and it's just Ms. James and me. Haley. Haley James.

"Did you read it yet?" She's talking about the note of course, but I ignore her, and tighten my fist just a little. "Please. Read it." And before I know it, her hand has somehow reached down and grabbed mine. I think I just died. She can feel it too.

"Read it." She says to me as her and Nathan walk away five minutes later. I ignore Peyton's questioning eyes and grab my CD. _This better be worth it_.


	5. Chapter 5

"Want to explain that to me?" Peyton is talking, but all I hear was "Blah, blah, blah." I feel bad, sort of. But I can't shake Ms. James's words out of my head. _"Please. Read it."_ If that didn't sound desperate…

Then I feel someone hit me right across the back of my head, and I turn to glare at my sister. She gives me a "you-don't-want-to-answer-me-then-I'm-just-going-to-keep-pissing-you-off" look. I glare back. Finally, she sees that I don't want to talk about, and it's something extremely personal, so she backs off.

The car ride home is silent except for the sounds of a really bad Jessica Simpson CD that Peyton had just bought. She isn't talking to me. I'm not talking to her. Jessica Simpson wants to make me puke. The minute the car stops in the driveway, I'm out of it, up the stairs and into my room. I flop down on my mattress and hit the play/pause button on the stereo on my way down. Duncan Sheik. That's more like it. I take the note out of my pocket and stare at it. Then, with caution, I begin to unfold it.

When I finally finish, I see that it's sort of long. Maybe about a half a page – handwritten. She put some thought into it, I guess.

_Brooke,_

_I want to apologize for the other day, in the car. I actually have to apologize for times before that too. I'm a teacher, a teacher who is supposed to know when the line between a professional and personal relationship has been crossed. And ours has been crossed. It's confusing, I shouldn't have driven you home, because that's too personal. But if I had left you there that wouldn't have been to professional of me now would it? No. The answer to that question is no. But I still need to talk to you. Please. I understand that you're still mad at me now, and I'll give you the weekend at least. But on Monday, please come by my room after class to talk to me. Please._

Haley 

She wants to draw a line between professional and personal, and in the same breath, begs me to come talk to her? I think about this in her class the next morning, wondering what she is talking about. But, before I know it, the bell is ringing, and students are filing out of the classroom. And we're the only two left.

She is sitting at her desk, legs swinging slightly, obviously a habit of hers. She's waiting for me; I'm waiting for her first move. It's a stalemate, until she hops down lightly and takes up a new position, this time two desks away from mine. Again, we stare for a moment. She opens her mouth to speak one, twice, four times, but nothing comes out. So she finally just clamps it shut, and slips down into the seat directly in front of mine, so that out faces are now closer that ever before.

She smells like vanilla. And apples. Vanilla and apples. My two new favorite scents. Finally, she exhales and a small smile creeps onto her face.

"You read it." It's a statement, not a question. But, I nod my head anyway, so she knows I'm listening. "Well then." She has clearly run out of things to say.

_Open your mouth, you oaf. _My inner babble starts to yell at me, and it startles me. The Voice has never called me an oaf before. _Tell her to screw personal relationships, and tell her you don't give a shit that her fiancée is a giant! Tell her to go get married and stay out you're life! Tell her…_

She's not moving away from me; she's waiting for me to say something. And, as usual, I don't. And she's just staring at me, her incredible eyes just boring into mine, not saying a word to me. Not a single word. Then, after what feels like forever, she finally opens her mouth and words come out.

"I'm sorry." I'm stunned. She's sorry about what? "I'm sorry I drove you home. I'm sorry you saw the ring. I'm sorry that you…"

"I'm transferring out of your class." I haven't spoken in over a year, and the first 6 words out of my mouth sound stale and hoarse. She's the stunned one now.

"What?" That's what I'm saying in my head. _What did you just say?!_

"I'm transferring out of your class. I tested into honors Math, and I got in. I start Monday." She hasn't moved yet, her jaw still dropped in an "O" formation. Finally, she swallows and speaks.

"Why?" I laugh. I actually laugh. And she has no idea what to make of it. This is the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard of.

"Why? Because our personal/professional has been crossed, cleared, erased, written over. Well, that's what you say. I mean, jeez. You gave me a ride home, I saw you at the mall. Wanna know a secret? I once had dinner with Principal Gold. How's that for crossing the line? Hmm? And just the other day, I used a pencil that belongs to Ms. McAlester. I'm a line-crossing rebel. Look at me go. You gave me a ride home, it's not like you gave me a hug or…"

She's kissing me. She just shot forward and grabbed the back of my neck, and kissed me. And I'm kissing her back. She pulls on my jacket, forcing the zipper down and for a fleeting second, I try to remember how wrong this is. She's a teacher, and I'm a student. But then my jacket is gone and I don't care anymore. My hands weave their way through her hair and pull her closer. And it's not until she says my name in an out-of-breath voice that I realize what's happening.

"Stop." I push her back from me, trying not to be forceful. She's breathing deep and her face is flushed.

"What? What's the matter?" She seems to be rambling and at the same time, she's taking my hand in hers and intertwining our fingers. It takes all my strength to pull them apart. "Brooke, what's wrong?"

"We can't do this. It's not right. You're a teacher…"

"I'll quit."

"And you're engaged."

"I'll call it off."

"And it's illegal."

"We'll move to Mexico." I'm tempted to laugh, but I can't. The situation is too serious for jokes like this, and she doesn't seem to understand. "Brooke." She's pleading with me, and our hands are clasped again. "I felt it. You felt it. It was a felt-fest. Why should we have to deny it? Isn't the world about happiness and…peace for christssake?"

"Maybe back in the 60's, yeah. But Haley, you have a job and someone you said you would marry. To throw that all away just so we can – an 17-year-old and a 23-year-old – just so we can be together…it's not right." I can't look at her right now. Her face is trying to put up a front, and she's giving me a sad half-smile. But her eyes are starting to fill with tears and I can't help it. I have to kiss her.

Her hand reaches up slowly and finds mine again – the third time she's holding my hand. Her other hand is on my cheek and I want it to stay there forever. But forever isn't as long as it used to be, because her cell phone starts to ring and she sighs into my mouth. She releases my hand and digs into her jeans pocket, taking it out as it rings a third time, all the while kissing me. She pulls away and checks the caller id: it's Nathan. Her eyes get wide, and I'm tempted to pull a movie-inspired move and throw the phone out the window. Instead, I nod at her and make a lip-zipping motion as she flips open the phone cover.

"Hey." She looks at me and I move closer to her – as close as the desks allow us to get. "I'm still at school." My hand drops to her jean covered thigh and she raises an eyebrow at me. "Correcting papers." My next move earns me a glare, as my hand inches closer to her waist. "I'm not sure, whenever I finish. You should just go to your poker night." A pause. "Basketball, sorry. I thought it was poker night." I pick her hand up and kiss it lightly, planning on making my escape. "Later, right. Bye." She hangs up and tightens her grasp on my hand. "Where are you going?"

"I figured I'd let you actually correct papers, considering as how you just said you were. I don't want to deprive the class of knowing whether or not they failed." I stand up and remain in front of her.

"But I'm hungry. Let's get something to eat." She laces our hands together and smiles. "Perfect fit." I can't help but smile back.

"You're kind of cheesy, you know that?" She nods and rises up in her seat a little. I concede and lean forward, meeting her in the middle. After a minute – hands still clasped – I pull away and smile.

"I know where to go for some food, come on." She grabs her bag, I grab mine, and she hits the lights on her way out the door.


End file.
